


How You & I are Blossoming

by bene_elim



Series: Innocence and Experience [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Forehead Kisses, Holding Hands, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Sad Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sad Crowley (Good Omens), holding hands is an Important part of this fic, more character study really, there is a singular use of the F word in this but nothing more explicit in any way other than that, these two need to Talk Properly about how they feel, this starts super fluffy and then goes angsty and then gets better, you might want to read the first part before reading this but its not Completely necessary, you thought their communication issues were over? they've only just begun!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 00:37:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20218909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bene_elim/pseuds/bene_elim
Summary: In which Crowley just wants to hold Aziraphale's hand, Aziraphale just wants to hold Crowley's hand, and their archenemy Miscommunication strikes again.-"‘Aziraphale.’He couldn’t look. He really couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t bear it. He turned his head further away, so afraid and so pathetic that he was shivering. The warmness that had existed between them before faded so quickly and was once again replaced with the ice that Aziraphale had felt all day. He felt numb.‘Aziraphale. Let go of me.’With a yank that felt like snapping an icicle, Crowley tore his hand from Aziraphale’s bruising grip. Without a look behind him, he walked out of the bookshop."





	1. I Saw That Here Where We Were Joined the Light That Fell Upon Us Burned

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I said the previous work may be the start of a series, and it seems I was right. I couldn't leave it alone. 
> 
> This takes place about three months after _Whenever We Feel - We Evaporate._ It was originally meant to be two chapters long, and then I grew a bit disorientated and before I knew it I was writing chapter three and knowing I'd have four chapters in total. The first three chapters are complete, but the fourth isn't yet; I'm going to post this now and hopefully within a couple of days I can finish writing and post the whole thing. 
> 
> Again, I've struggled with the dialogue (which is why there isn't much of it), but the comments I got on _ Whenever We Feel_ were so lovely and so encouraging to read that I feel a little more confident posting this time. 
> 
> I've gone through and tried to eliminate mistakes, but likely there are still a couple, so point them out if you see any. Title is a line from a poem by E. E. Cummings; chapter title is from a poem by Harold Pinter. 
> 
> Thanks for baring with me. I'm still fairly new at this. Enjoy, and if you would, let me know what you think.

April in London meant daffodils in the parks and puddles on the ground. Almost not a day went by without at least a little rain.

Aziraphale adored it.

It was the way the city smelt fresh, for once, after a shower, the way that the normally grey streets would light up with dozens of coloured and patterned umbrellas, the easing of pressure when the heavy clouds finally drifted to show shy cerulean sky. The season of new birth, and every day felt like a new beginning after being cleansed by the rain.

St James’s park was thriving with tourists despite the less-than-ideal weather for picnics and picture-taking. The ice-cream man had his stall up and a surprising number of people were holding lollies and ice-creams. Aziraphale, sat on a bench close by, miracled a refreshed supply of flakes when the vendor started to run out.

Crowley eyed him with amusement.

‘In Heaven’s bad books and you use your miracles giving kids a reason to cry when their parents won’t buy them a flake?’

Aziraphale looked at him in mild horror.

‘Flakes bring people happiness! I’ve not seen one parent disallow their child a single, 99p chocolate flake.’

He was treated to an expression of disbelief.

‘Angel,’ Crowley said, ‘who do you think helped Mr Cadbury start his business?’

Aziraphale gave an indignant huff. Crowley decided not to tell him that he was also responsible for the price of Freddos constantly fluctuating.

‘Come on,’ Crowley continued, standing up and hoisting the umbrella above them. It was black. It was boring. It was _Crowley, _but it was boring. Aziraphale absently wished for his tartan brolly that he’d forgotten at the bookshop. ‘Let’s get out of this cold.’

They ended up walking around the park. There were ducks to visit and feed, Aziraphale said; Crowley couldn’t persuade him into a drink at the closest pub when the bag of seeds had yet to be devoured by incessant bills. Just as the weather hadn’t stopped tourists and other innocent park-goers from visiting St James’s, neither had it stopped the various secret agents and government employees from holding their clandestine meetings on the benches scattered around. Crowley considered telling Aziraphale that so long as the Bulgarian cultural attaché kept meeting with the Keeper of Her Majesty’s Antiques during his coffee break here everyday, the ducks would never starve. Then he decided not to, since he could just picture the pout on Aziraphale’s face.

Well, at least he had stopped wearing hats and hiding the breadcrumbs in there.

In true fashionista style, Crowley had foregone a coat appropriate for the weather in favour of appearance. He shivered under the umbrella.

‘I’m sorry, my dear, I know you’re cold,’ Aziraphale muttered, tossing crumbs to the gluttonous beasts. ‘I haven’t fed them in so long, I can’t neglect them much longer or they’ll forget us! I won’t be long.’

Crowley thought that the frozen door-to-door salesmen paving the way to Hell would begin to thaw before the ducks would dare forget them. He also thought he could learn to live with the cold trapped permanently in his bones if it meant making Aziraphale happy that they could feed the ducks.

Soft. That’s what he’d grown. What happened to those times he could walk away from Aziraphale without so much as a goodbye and not feel an ounce of heartache? It had been centuries since he could do that.

And it had been hardly three months since he could stop worrying about reaching out and holding his best friend’s hand. He could live with being soft it it meant holding Aziraphale’s hand and seeing him smile in that way of his.

He dipped his hand into the bag of crumbs.

‘Let’s feed the menaces, then,’ he said, tossing his handful into the water. A cacophony of quacks rose up amongst the frantic fluttering of wings but it couldn’t drown out the secret smile Crowley caught a glimpse of on Aziraphale’s face. He was so distracted with trying to spot it again that he completely forgot to playfully sink the ducks or cause trouble.

-

Holding Aziraphale’s hand was like enveloping oneself in a warm blanket. It was a miraculous experience, a numinous experience, an experience filled with such warmth and delight that Crowley imagined that only Aziraphale could invoke it.

He had spent millennia observing Aziraphale’s hands. He’d been unable to help the pull of his eyes in their direction ever since he saw the flaming sword wielded in Eden; he’d watched them lose the confidence of a sword-baring guardian and become nervous, twisting and twining within themselves. Aziraphale probably never realised he did it. Crowley only ever wished he could reach and still the fretting, twine his own hand around his friend’s.

It was strange now that he could. He had spent so long wishing, imagining, hesitating, that the concept of just _reaching out_ and entangling his fingers with Aziraphale’s was surreal. Holding Aziraphale’s hand was like being transported to a world that ran like molasses and felt like a dream. Crowley wasn’t entirely sure he _wasn’t _dreaming it, every time he felt Aziraphale’s fingers squeeze his own.

How exciting to be able to walk around St James’s Park and hold the hand of the one he loves. Everyone could see them, their hands together in plain sight, a proud announcement saying _we love each other, _and _we belong to each other. _No one cared, really (there was the occasional homophobe, but one stern, condescending look from Crowley over the top of his sunglasses and a word from Aziraphale about how neither of them were really _men_, per se, thank you very much, and why don’t you go find another occupation to better use your time than harassing strangers and being quite rude, and they’d be left alone. Crowley wondered whether Aziraphale didn’t do to them the same he did to the men who would attempt to buy his shop every now and then). But it was a statement. It didn’t matter that no one cared - it mattered that now, _Heaven and Hell_ didn’t care, and he could finally push his love in the faces of _others_ who didn’t care. Holding Aziraphale’s hand was like a _fuck you_ to their superiors, it was like a celebration, it was like a victory dance. Holding Aziraphale’s hand was like wishing on a star and having it come true.

He squeezed the fingers pressed against his. They squeezed back. They’ll always squeeze back.

‘You know, angel,’ Crowley said, ‘I’m not so cold anymore. We can stay and feed the ducks a while longer, if you want.’

He was treated to such a smile that his heart cracked a little bit. It wasn’t hurt, not really, though it _did_ hurt; it was the type of hurt that loving something too much induces. It’s an aching sort of hurt, one that feels more hopeless than any true physical pain ever could. He could see that smile everyday for the rest of his immortal life and it would hurt just as much every time.

He wanted to reach the hand not holding Aziraphale’s and trace that smile, preserve it and keep it safe. He could already feel its curves, phantom whispers against his fingertips; his fingers twitched in empty air. Aziraphale smiled at him a lot, and with such loving softness with increasing frequency, and yet he still wished to selfishly hoard each one in case one day he never saw any again.

‘I’ve finished the bread, my dear,’ Aziraphale said. He scrunched the bag up. Crowley could still see a couple of handfuls of crumbs and seeds left in it. He appreciated the gesture anyway.

‘Come on, then.’ He said, and led them outside of the park to where the Bentley was parked. They’d go to a restaurant, or a café, or a museum - or to the bookshop. They could relax properly, at the bookshop.

He didn’t want to let go of Aziraphale’s hand. He considered miracling the Bentley to drive itself - but then Aziraphale took his own hand back and made the decision for him. It would be alright, though: Aziraphale gripped his fingers tightly once when he shifted gears. And Crowley knew he’d be able to take that hand again whenever he wanted, now. He could have a little patience.

-

There was a hat stand in Aziraphale’s bookshop. Aziraphale was sure he hadn’t bought it, and it certainly hadn’t been there when he opened the shop in 1800, but it had somehow mysteriously appeared sometime around 1840. It quickly amassed a number of forgotten coats and hats, most of which weren’t Aziraphale’s and were of equally mysterious origins. They were probably forgotten by the few rare customers that visited the shop. Aziraphale never bothered trying to return them.

The significance of the hatstand was that around 1850, Crowley had absently placed his hat upon it as though it were something he did every day. It had hung there, an elegant black stylish thing making a mockery of Aziraphale’s own scruffy cream top hat that hung next to it. The image was one that had imprinted itself in Aziraphale’s memory. Their hats looked like they had always been there, together on that hatstand.

That same evening that Crowley had hung his hat up, he had also settled in Aziraphale’s chair, feet planted on his desk and hands skimming the piles of books around him absently. He had looked truly comfortable, more at ease in his surroundings than even Aziraphale reckoned he himself looked, and it was his bookshop. It had been what had prompted the purchase of a second chair for the backroom. It was unused by all but Crowley (except during periods of Aziraphale’s impulsive book buying, when it would be the resting place of a dozen or so books waiting to be catalogued).

Aziraphale hadn’t known it, but that evening in 1850 had been the evening that Crowley started to think of the bookshop as _home_. He had been living in a house in Grosvenor Square, a truly magnificent thing where he took the liberty of hosting a great many number of extravagant dinner parties for the Victorian society - an easy and low-effort way to tempt a couple of souls and fill Hell’s monthly quota. He’d started visiting Aziraphale at the bookshop because, after opening it, Aziraphale had hardly left it for a while; then it became a respite from his own residence, filled as it was so often with people he didn’t know nor care to know and whose general morality levels left much to be desired. He’d found the bookshop felt faintly of goodness and love. And a home needed goodness and love to feel like a home.

He’d never told Aziraphale. But he showed it in the way he popped round so often, or suggested they spend the evening in the bookshop rather than a restaurant. Aziraphale probably knew anyway (he didn’t; he thought Crowley just preferred privacy and disliked being out for too long).

This afternoon saw the pair of them enter the bookshop almost as one entity, shoulders brushing as they tried to get through the door side by side. Crowley had taken Aziraphale’s hand as he helped him out of the car and hadn’t let go since; it made getting their coats off and placing them on the weary hatstand a tad tricky, but they fell about laughing at the silliness of it which made up for the difficulties. No alcohol had been consumed (yet), but they felt drunk with giddy happiness.

Here was home, and it was warm and known. Crowley settled into his chair with all the familiarity of one who had been doing so for almost two centuries.

‘A drink!’ He cried, and miracled a glass of wine into his hand. Aziraphale was secretly glad he hadn’t asked to break open the penultimate crate of vintage wines he had stored somewhere.

Crowley had miracled a glass for Aziraphale, too; he handed it to him. It was something dark red and fragrant.

‘To feeding ducks forevermore!’ He stated, and toasted Aziraphale. Then he took a large gulp.

Aziraphale raised his glass also, but did not drink. He was admiring the way Crowley sprawled in the chair, head tilted back and shoulders for once not so tense. What a privilege, he thought, to see him so relaxed. He had been altogether much less jittery and wired after that fateful love confession three months ago.

_I love you, _Aziraphale thought.

‘Biscuits, dear?’ Aziraphale said. He brought up a tartan biscuit box and opened it to reveal a treasure trove of digestives and custard creams and bourbons and ginger snaps. The box was placed on the table, a mountain separating them, forcing their hands apart. Crowley dragged his chair around the circular table closer to Aziraphale’s and grabbed a biscuit with one hand, Aziraphale’s hand with the other. Aziraphale tried to stifle a smile but failed; it pulled helplessly at the corners of his mouth. He could hold Crowley’s hand for the rest of eternity, face down the next apocalypse with one hand around a sword and the other enfolded in Crowley’s.

It was strange, perhaps, that such blatant physical affection came so openly from Crowley. Aziraphale had expected no change from the state of their previous relationship except for maybe a subtle hand on an elbow, or an arm thrown around shoulders. It was like saying _I love you _had opened the gate to reveal a Crowley who delighted in holding hands. Crowley had shown more moments of softness in the last three months than he had in the whole of their six-millennia-long acquaintance.

Aziraphale didn’t mind. He relished it, craved it, wished so forcefully for Crowley to hold his hand that he wasn’t sure whether Crowley wasn’t actually only doing it to make him happy. When his hands were alone they twitched, empty, seeking Crowley’s. He was aware of his nervous habit of wringing his hands; it was a habit he’d almost broken in the last three months, occupied as they were so often now with holding another’s.

He’d never held anyone’s hand before Crowley’s. It was astonishing how addicting the action had grown to be, and how quickly too. How had he gone so long without a hand to hold his while walking round parks before? A stroll along the paths of St James’s seemed bland without a hand in his now, and his fingers felt frigid when Crowley didn’t have his hand wrapped around them.

Holding Crowley’s hand under the table in the bookshop’s backroom while each nibbling on a biscuit and drinking wine that didn’t exist ten minutes ago was the embodiment of warmth_. I love you_, Aziraphale thought_. I love you_.

He squeezed Crowley’s hand.

-

How many evenings had they spent drinking in Aziraphale’s bookshop? How many hours had been whiled away in drunken conversation while outside the world passed them by? How much time had they wasted in their respective chairs, a glass in their hands, silliness on their lips?

How many seconds had they lost yearning for a closeness they thought impossible?

No more. Here was home, and here were two man-shaped beings finally unafraid to hold each other’s hands. London drizzled, grey and heavy, but no less alive. A bookshop thrived. Here was love, the feeling full and light.


	2. A Universal Migraine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale frets, Crowley thinks, Aziraphale overthinks. Same old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An interlude, of sorts; this is about when I started to lose the thread of what I was writing, and when I realised I'd need more chapters. It's short and fairly uneventful but hopefully it does give a bit of insight to the type of relationship I'm trying to build between them. The proper angst starts in the next chapter, so enjoy the peace while you can. 
> 
> I'm probably about three paragraphs away from the end of this work, so hopefully I'll be able to get chapters three and four posted, if not by tomorrow, then by the day after. 
> 
> Anyway, chapter title is from _Symptoms of Love_ by Robert Graves. Thanks for reading :)

Six millennia of friendship had provided a wealth of habits and traditions. Since the late nineties, it had been custom for Crowley to pay a visit to Aziraphale’s bookshop and check in on Tuesday. This wasn’t every Tuesday: perhaps once a month or every other month or, if things were particularly exciting (as they had been in September 2001, for example, or July 2005), once a fortnight.

Since the delivery of the Antichrist unto this world, the number of visits Crowley paid the bookshop - or rather, Aziraphale, wherever he may be - increased to a great deal more than just _once a fortnight_. It became more _once a week_, or even perhaps _twice a week_ \- but the traditional Tuesday visitation stayed. If Crowley was guaranteed to visit any day, it would be a Tuesday.

It was midday and it was a Tuesday, and there was no sign of Crowley.

Aziraphale fretted.

He needn’t, and he knew this. They had no concrete plans for the day, Crowley waltzing out of the bookshop the previous night with a nonchalant _I’ll be in touch,_ and despite the increasing frequency of days they spent together, seeing each other every single day was not yet the norm. Crowley had visited _last _Tuesday. There was no reason for him to come _this _Tuesday, too.

But, and here was the important part: Tuesdays were _theirs. _It had been the first day, after Eden, that they had met each other on Earth. . Aziraphale wished Crowley would at least _call_.

Truthfully, Aziraphale could admit to being a little bit melodramatic. He recognised that this wasn’t particularly unusual - many a Tuesday had passed before during which Crowley hadn’t popped over - and to be so worked up over such a small detail was quite silly. But he also couldn’t help feeling barren. The bookshop, overcrowded with books and a cosy, homely space that he had carved out for himself to feel at ease in over the last two centuries, felt _lonely _for the first time ever. He didn’t want to stay inside it alone much longer - but he didn’t want to leave for fear of missing a late visit from Crowley. He was quite stuck, and quite distressed, and he couldn’t quite understand why he was in such a state.

He took a sip of his cocoa. It chased the chill away from his cold lips and hands; desperate, he leant over the mug and let the steam wash over his face.

It was dreadfully cold for an April day.

The piddling rain hadn’t heard of pause nor respite in the last week. A bluster had picked up at dawn that day, howling in the way wind does when it whips around buildings and through alleys, of which London is full. It made for a rather typical springtime day; even the damp chill permeating the air was a staple of London ten months out of twelve. But today - today was a glacier, an icy stream, a biting breeze. Today was calling numbness by its name, coldness settling in.

If only Crowley were here. Aziraphale had discovered very quickly that coldness was nonexistent when he was holding Crowley’s hand.

-

Blustery days were the the best days for sleeping in. There was a peace knowing that the cold and the wind couldn’t reach you in your bed, stopped as it was by windows and brick. Crowley’s favourite thing to do was to listen to the rainfall and howling wind while lying in bed, dozing, in that space between proper sleep and wakefulness that makes time feel like honey.

With the rain quiet white noise and time slipping slowly, Crowley thought of Aziraphale.

He often did, these days. No, that’s not right. He’d always_ often _thought of Aziraphale. Nowadays he was practically _plagued_ with thoughts of Aziraphale: there was hardly a moment he didn’t think of him.

For the longest time, he had thought of forgiveness. It had been this unattainable goal, something to strive towards, something he could continue to wake up for. It had been three months since Aziraphale had said those silly words that absolved him _just like that - _the unattainable goal had finally been attained 

Except, had it, really? He didn’t_ feel_ any different. He hadn’t expected to ascend to angelhood once again or even really to be treated or seen in a much different light - he didn’t care about that and, as far as being an angel went, he rather preferred being a demon. Heaven, he’d conceded not long before he’d fallen, was _boring. _At least as a demon you got to have _a little _fun.

But he’d longed after forgiveness. He’d wanted to feel cleansed of the general evilness of Hell, to not have to feel the oil-slick stain of their grasp on him. Truthfully, the only perks to being a demon were being allowed to do whatever nefarious deed crossed your mind and not get into (too much, depending) trouble. And since Crowley was quite content with rather minor acts of unholiness and was not, as one might otherwise rightfully expect a demon to be, evil or bad in anyway that made him worse than your average human, being an agent of Hell didn’t have many advantageous opportunities for him. He could’ve happily lived as a human, if it didn’t mean giving up his ability to perform miracles.

The fact that Hell hadn’t paid him any notice since the little body-swapping stunt he and Aziraphale pulled didn’t lessen the feeling that they had him grasped by the wings. He had only wished for forgiveness, hoping for it to cut him loose from there. He didn’t mind being a demon, as long as he wasn’t associated with the rest of that lot.

Why hadn’t Aziraphale’s forgiveness changed the way he felt. 

It was a mystery with three months of thought behind it and still no clear answer. It looked like there wouldn’t be a clear answer at all, ever: he only ever went in circles when he thought about it. He tended to try and avoid doing just that for just that very reason. Whereas before, thoughts of Aziraphale were often intertwined with thoughts of forgiveness, now, thoughts of Aziraphale were more about intertwining their fingers. If he also wondered, briefly and with hesitance, what it might be like to do more than just _hold hands_, then no one had to know.

The wind whistled like an aggressive pirate blowing a tune through the space created by a missing tooth. That is to say, it had a terrible quality to it, as though it were hanging on to the last bit of calm it possessed by a thread. If God did control the weather, Crowley did _not _want to find out what had caused Her to unleash this gale.

He wondered, as he often did, what Aziraphale was doing. Particularly blowy days were not a favourite of his; Crowley had lent many a ear to rants and whines about how customers would open the bookshop door and let the wind rustle the pages of his precious books, or how he could hardly step outside without the ends of his coat blowing out behind him and causing difficulties for himself and others, or (when he wore a neck tie instead of a bow tie, which wasn’t too regularly but was occasionally known to happen) how his tie would be blown over his shoulder, making him look a mess. The only trouble Crowley had ever had with the wind was having his hair blown every which way, which was especially a problem if he was preferring it long - but, as he saw it, it didn’t have to be a problem if you didn’t _let _it be. 

But that was besides the point. Crowley truthfully (not that he’d ever admit it) loved Aziraphale’s fussiness: he wouldn’t be any fun at all if he tolerated everything. 

It _was _Tuesday. Their day. The day of meetings and shared moments over the past six millennia. Maybe he should satisfy his curiosity by paying Aziraphale a visit, as per tradition. It’s not like he wouldn’t be welcome, is it? Aziraphale had said he loved him. 

Standing from his bed and dressing with a mere click of his fingers, he scooped up his car keys in a graceful swoop, and then stopped. His phone rang. 

-

There were few comforts that Aziraphale took pleasure in. He enjoyed food a great deal, something he knew Gabriel (and likely most other angels, too) looked down upon. He enjoyed a nice stroll along the lake in St James’s, or along the Embankment, or along the Mall. He enjoyed his books, able to lose himself in their depths for hours, days at a time. And he enjoyed Crowley’s company, despite knowing that _good_ angels didn’t keep the company of demons. Luckily, he’d long since come to terms with the fact that he’d much rather continue keeping Crowley’s company than not, even if that diminished his angelic status somewhat. 

No, what was important was that Aziraphale had few comforts in this world, and they could summarily be listed as _food, beautiful surroundings, books, _and _company_. He’d lived six thousand years: at a certain point in life, one stops needing much else to make one happy. 

So why was it that he felt _lacking_, comfortable as he was with his books around him, company a phone call away, a mug of cocoa next to him and a delightful people-watching-perfect view from his window? Here were all of his comforts, all the things he enjoyed in life, surrounding him - and he felt like he was choking, drowning, suffocating. They weren’t too much: they weren’t _enough_. 

He didn’t know how to gather himself together and sit up straight again, metaphorically speaking. For six millennia he had been on edge, ramrod straight, pristine and postured. Now he was slouching, slipping, no longer perfect. 

He blamed Crowley. 

No, that wasn’t fair. He didn’t _blame_ Crowley, it was just (indirectly) Crowley’s fault. A love confession leaves one feeling rather vulnerable and exhausted, even if it is reciprocated. Aziraphale felt like he was an emotional balloon, ready to burst from the pinprick that was admitting his feelings. 

He felt rather silly, actually. _Pathetic_. What sort of angel couldn’t handle an admission of love, after all? Wasn’t _love_ what he was all about? 

Wallowing in such thoughts wasn’t going to change how he felt. It was a feeling as though his lungs had migrated to his throat; breathing was hard, forceful and pained. It was a feeling as though his hands burned with ice, frozen and smouldering simultaneously. It was a feeling as though the clouds had blanketed too quickly and heavily over a summer sweet sky and the pressure manifested as a headache. 

Needless to say, it hurt, but in a psychological sort of way rather than anything physical. These were not pains that Aziraphale _would _experience, anyway, being an angel - but he was not immune to mental anguish. 

He couldn’t understand it. 

Ease came to him only when Crowley was around, and then only really when Crowley held his hand. And even that had started to not be enough to keep the pains at bay. He wasn’t sure what was wrong, or what he could do, and he was much too scared to talk to Crowley about it. 

What if he was _Falling_? 

No, he couldn’t be, could he? It wouldn’t feel like this, he was sure - though what he felt was indeed terrible in its own right, it wasn’t quite the hellish pains he associated with Falling. But once he had had the thought, it wouldn’t stop plaguing him, an irrational whisper at the back of his head that constantly called out to him and bid him to listen. And sometimes, left all alone with only Dickens and Donne for company, listening was all he could do. 

Aziraphale had few comforts, but he needed all of them now - especially the company of Crowley. 

His hand went to the phone. It _was _Tuesday, after all. 

‘_Hi_,’ a voice said after three rings. Aziraphale sighed, already feeling the ache abate in his head and his breathing flow easier. 

‘Crowley,’ he said. ‘How would you like to share a bottle of wine with me tonight?’

‘_Ah, are you trying to tempt me? Naughty angel,’ _Crowley replied. Aziraphale tripped over a breath, nonexistent heartbeat not-stuttering in his chest. He _was_ a naughty angel, wasn’t he? That was the entire problem. That was why Heaven was pretending he didn’t exist, why Gabriel had tried to execute him in Hellfire, why Sandalphon liked to watch him tremble and sweat with humiliation. He wasn’t a very good angel _at all_. What could Crowley possibly want with a naughty, broken, ridiculous, pathetic, _soft_ angel such as him? 

‘_Hello? Did you hear me, Aziraphale?’ _

_‘_Sorry?’

‘_I said, I’ll be there in fifteen. Are you okay?_’

‘Fine. Just fine. See you soon,’ Aziraphale said, and replaced the receiver. He absently fiddled with the rotary dial. 

Well. Perhaps the ice in his hands will thaw when Crowley comes and holds them. 


	3. What Will You Say Tonight, Poor Lonesome Soul?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes half an hour for everything to fall apart again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three! This is the painful one. I wrote this and chapter four in a singular frenzy and I've only looked over them briefly, so there's probably a couple of mistakes left. But mainly, I hope I stuck to some semblance of their characters. I know I keep saying it, but dialogue is so hard for me, and sometimes I get a little bit caught up and confused within the narrative, so hopefully nothing needs clarification.
> 
> Anyway, chapter title is from a poem by Charles Baudelaire. I'll have chapter four up sometime tonight, most likely. Enjoy!

It was with the sun setting behind him that Crowley drove to Aziraphale’s, though the clouds were so heavy that they covered it. All Crowley knew was that it was rapidly darkening, and the rain continued to fall. The Bentley’s windshield wipers were working woefully hard; he petted the steering wheel absently in encouragement. 

There was no parking space outside the bookshop. 

Normally, there’d always be one free for him. He aggressively kept it free in the same way he aggressively held the Bentley together in pristine condition despite it being almost a century old. Aziraphale had his clothes and books; he had his car. 

Today, the space was taken. It was a van, making a delivery to a shop close by. Crowley miracled the petrol tank empty in an act of petty irritation.

He parked, in the end, on the other side of the street on double yellow lines. He stared at the car after getting out, remembering the talking to he got from Aziraphale the last time he had parked there. Then he shrugged and walked away, towards the bookshop, not looking left or right when crossing the street. Accidents were things that happened to other people. 

The bookshop was locked, which he had anticipated. It was getting late (or, rather, it was approaching seven-thirty) and Aziraphale would normally close the shop at around four, if he opened at all. No matter. Crowley had a key. Aziraphale had given it to him around 1860, just before their argument; _just in case_, he had said, though Crowley had never known what kind of _just in case_ would need him to unlock the shop himself. He could always just use a miracle, he had explained to Aziraphale - but Aziraphale was all about doing things _properly_ (until it inconvenienced him) so he had insisted he keep the key. Crowley wore it on a chain around his neck. He found himself using it a lot more, these days; there _was_ something about doing it properly that made seeing Aziraphale’s smiling face emerge from beyond the glass panes all the sweeter. 

‘I’m here, angel,’ he called. The shop was lit softly, all candles and small, warm lights, just like Crowley knew Aziraphale preferred. It was a world different to the bright whites and blinding lighting he had at his flat. Most things in the bookshop were a world away from what he had at his flat. 

‘Ah, in the back,’ Aziraphale replied, somewhat muffled. Crowley followed the voice into the backroom, a space he knew as intimately as though it were his own. In a manner of speaking, he supposed it was. 

‘You ever considered putting some of these books away?’ He said in lieu of greeting when he came into view of Aziraphale. There was an abnormally high stack of old tomes by his chair, as though they had been cleared off the seat hurriedly. He eyed it critically. 

‘I’ve just got to catalogue them, dear; these are all new purchases.’

Crowley shrugged and fell into his seat, careful to not disturb the pile. He did value his life, thank you. 

‘So, you mentioned wine?’

He was treated to a shy smirk for a brief moment before Aziraphale turned his back on him and went to pick something up. He turned back with an arm outstretched, offering a glass of the wine he had promised. Crowley accepted it with a grin. 

‘Thanks, angel,’ he said. It was sweet; Aziraphale preferred sweeter wines whereas Crowley was partial to the drier varieties, though he had never told Aziraphale that. He smiled behind his glass. 

‘Anything on your mind?’ He asked after they had sat in a strange silence for a moment. 

‘No, no, why would you say that?’ Aziraphale said, though it was with a shaky quality that made Crowley narrow his eyes slightly. He knew what Aziraphale sounded like when he was lying or hiding something, had gotten better at recognising that nervous tone he adopted since the near end of the world. 

‘You sure? You were a bit strange over the phone. You just called me for some wine?’ 

‘That isn’t so odd, is it? It _is_ Tuesday, dear boy.’ 

There was a pause. The critical gaze Crowley had given the pile of books earlier now found its new target in Aziraphale; Aziraphale recognised that look, despite the sunglasses hiding most of it. 

‘Alright, well, I might’ve felt a little bit… Lonely, I suppose,’ he admitted finally, haltingly, apprehensively. He was looking away from Crowley, into his wineglass which he swirled with the air of one who pretends he knows what he’s doing. Aziraphale may very well enjoy his wine, but, contrary to popular opinion, he knew neither heads nor tails of wine tasting and identification: that was more Crowley’s department. 

‘Huh,’ said Crowley, taking a gulp from his own glass. What does one say to that?

‘Yes, well, it _is _Tuesday,’ Aziraphale continued, with an air about him like he was trying desperately hard not to show just how invested he was in this conversation. Faked nonchalance. ‘And I thought it would be nice to see you, since it’s such a cold, horrible day, so I called. If you didn’t want to come, you didn’t have to,’ he said, defensively. 

‘No, no, I want to be here,’ Crowley said. He always wanted to be here. _Here_ was better than his own flat which, though he loved because it was _his_, was not _home _in the way _here_ was. He always wanted to be home. 

A smile befell Aziraphale’s face, as halting and hesitant as his tone of voice. It all felt rather similar to a situation three months ago, when Aziraphale had whispered I love you. Crowley wished hopelessly that he’d say those words again; he watched Aziraphale’s lips, counted every superficial exhale, waited to hear it again. 

‘I’m glad you’re here, Crowley,’ Aziraphale said. It was as close to _I love you_ as he’d get, for now, it seemed. He was alright with that. He could just reach across and entangle his fingers with Aziraphale’s instead. 

-

The cold that had trapped itself in Aziraphale’s hands evaporated slowly when Crowley twined their fingers together. It was all he could do not to sigh in relief. _This _is what he wanted, _this_ is what he had been lacking, _this_ was what he needed. He hadn’t known how to ask for it, afraid of seeming _pathetic_ or _soft_; he hadn’t known how to initiate it himself, afraid of seeming _ridiculous_. 

He grasped Crowley’s hand a little firmer. 

‘I’m glad to be here, angel,’ Crowley replied. Aziraphale smiled. 

There was something to be said about the quiet moments the backroom of the Soho bookshop had witnessed. It had been privy to so many drunken, uproarious conversations, littered with laughter and shouting; it had seen enough plans hatched and foiled, enough rants about whatever particular grievances were all the range of the time, enough recollections of memories stretching back far beyond its establishment. It was a wizened bookshop, as drunk as its owner, just on experience rather than alcohol. And, like its owner, its favourite experiences were those quiet ones. 

The ones that stood as pillars of support for all the other experiences, the moments that life would collapse without. The moment of silence, stretching like a river, between Aziraphale and Crowley now, their hands joined like a bridge across the void of watery no-noise. 

There seemed to be nothing to be said. Their hands said it all. 

There was love here, encircled around the bookshop and Crowley and Aziraphale so tightly and intrinsically that even if he wished to, Aziraphale couldn’t sense it. It was very similar to why Anathema hadn’t been able to see Adam’s aura. 

The icy hurt that had plagued Aziraphale’s heart earlier melted into something different. Now it felt like longing - like he had sent half his heart out in search of something and along the way it had gotten lost and now his other half called and called and called for its return to no avail. He wondered what he could possibly still be longing for when he had all he wanted right here with him: his books, a good glass of wine, the company of one he adores, his hand held by one adores. 

The silence stretched on. It felt like the Thames: the movements to raise a glass to lips like the tides, the warmth of their joint hands thawing the ice that had frozen the river and Aziraphale’s heart. Aziraphale remembered the Frost Fairs that had taken place on the glaciered river-top in the past centuries. He and Crowley had attended one together, once, in the 1600s, ice-skates on their feet and hands on each other’s shoulders as they fought for balance. Crowley had bought him a card from Croom; he still had it, tucked safely in the shop somewhere. It had been one of the first few instances of the two of them meeting purposely for pleasure rather than business. 

It had also been the first time they had ever held hands. Granted, their fingers had been swathed with thick wool to keep the chill out and they had only held on to each other to stop from tumbling down on the unforgiving ice - but they had held hands nonetheless. Aziraphale wondered whether Crowley remembered. 

‘Angel.’ Crowley said. It was a ripple in the river of silence. Aziraphale turned to look at him. 

‘My dear?’

There was a long moment, silent once again, though with a different quality to it, as though it was not so much silence as it was the extended stretch between one sound and the next. It felt as though time had been slowed impossibly slow, each second lasting minutes and minutes. Was Crowley leaning forward? 

He was, and he was getting closer, their hands fast becoming the only barrier between them. 

Their lips touched. It was with the softness of water, a barely-there butterfly touch. Those extended seconds extended further into hours and time slowly slipped to a stop, a pause. There was warmth, now, and a closeness Aziraphale had never felt before. 

He drew away quickly, eyes yet closed, head turning from Crowley’s direction. He couldn’t bare, hardly dared to see his reaction. He felt a choking cry build in his throat and he drew in a large breath of air in an effort to keep it down, but he couldn’t stop the silent tears that fought their way from beneath his clenched eyelids and tracked traitorous paths down his cheeks. He gripped Crowley’s hand so tightly it hurt even him. 

‘Aziraphale.’ 

He couldn’t look. He really couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t bear it. He turned his head further away, so afraid and so _pathetic_ that he was shivering. The warmness that had existed between them before faded so quickly and was once again replaced with the ice that Aziraphale had felt all day. He felt numb. 

‘Aziraphale. Let go of me.’

With a yank that felt like snapping an icicle, Crowley tore his hand from Aziraphale’s bruising grip. Without a look behind him, he walked out of the bookshop. 

Aziraphale was still stuck, unable to move, his hand open on the table still, tears streaming down his cheeks still. Even in the silence characterised by being alone - for that was what he was, now - he couldn’t bring himself to let the sob building at the back of his throat escape him. He couldn’t move. He didn’t want to ever move again. 

-

A day passed, and then another. And then another day passed, and so did the storm. April once again returned to its usual schedule of drizzle and cool sunshine. 

Aziraphale hadn’t opened the bookshop for the newly energetic springtime shoppers in three days. Aziraphale hadn’t moved at all, in fact, in three days. He had remained slumped over his backroom’s table, hand still open as though reaching for something no longer there, eyes and cheeks now dry and crusted with salt. The change in weather hadn’t served to thaw the coldness in his stomach. He felt wretched. 

In the same way one might doze, lie in that space between wakefulness and unconsciousness, Aziraphale had spent the last few days in a mental void. He could hardly remember the passing of the hours, the setting and rising of the sun casting its light into the shop, the sparse knocks on the locked front door. He felt as though it had been seconds, only, since Crowley had walked out of the bookshop, and he was still chanting _please don’t leave me _in his head. _Please don’t leave me._

_Please, don’t leave me. _

_Please. Don’t. Leave me. _

_Please, don’t. Leave me. _

_Please. Don't leave me._

Had he said it out loud? He couldn’t remember that, either. Would Crowley even have listened if he had? 

Had he ruined everything? 

It felt like he had ruined everything. 

How could he explain that whatever Crowley was thinking, it was wrong? He didn’t mean to react like that. It had been a simple kiss, barely there: he’d seen humans kissing an uncountable amount of times in the past six millennia. He hadn’t meant to react like that. It was just a kiss. He hadn’t meant to react like that. 

He hadn’t _not_ enjoyed it, but he wouldn’t like to do it again, either. But he hadn’t meant to react like that. It was just a kiss. He’d only meant to tell Crowley he wasn’t one for kissing. 

But it wasn’t like he hadn’t enjoyed it. He was a little bit indifferent, a little bit confused, a little bit wishful for simpler touches. Would Crowley even want to speak to him again? 

They’d gone a century without seeing one another before and lived. But things were different now. They could spend a century apart again, but Aziraphale couldn’t be sure what state of _life_ he’d be in by the end of it. 

A diminished one, certainly. He already felt weaker, more pathetic than before; he couldn’t imagine spending a century wallowing like this. He couldn’t imagine _what _he’d do if Crowley didn’t even wish to see him again after a century. 

He wanted to call, explain himself, beg Crowley to come back to the bookshop. _Please don’t leave me._ He couldn’t. He couldn’t bear talking. His throat ached with repressed sobs. He felt too cold to do much else but stay still, stuck, exactly as he had been when Crowley had left. He wasn’t sure when he’d be prepared to move again, but it probably wouldn’t be soon. 

He stayed stuck, stared at the phone, blinked harshly to will away the dryness of his eyes. A light drizzle, perfect for April, mocked him outside; his fingers twitched as he thought of feeding ducks in the rain under the cover of a boring black umbrella, a hand in his own. Simpler touches. Would Crowley ever allow him to explain it? 


	4. You Hold My Touch in You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley broods, apologises, and then finds that everything's just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, as promised, and things get better. Chapter title from a poem by Harold Pinter. Enjoy.

There was not a mark on Crowley’s hand, but he could still feel Aziraphale’s grip on his fingers. It had been three days. 

And there was not a mark upon his lips, either, and yet Aziraphale’s ghostly presence clung there, too. 

And there was not a mark within his head, but he was continuously plagued, plagued, plagued with thoughts of the angel who would not kiss him back. 

There was not a mark _anywhere_, but somehow Aziraphale had found his way _everywhere_. Crowley couldn’t be rid of him. 

He wanted to - he wanted to, to - he didn’t know what he wanted. He wanted to stop thinking of the angel who would not kiss him back. 

Closing his eyes, he let himself remember. It’d been evening, candle softness keeping darkening night at bay a little while longer. It’d been warm, so warm, so pleasantly warm; Aziraphale close by, their hands clasped together. He’d leant forward, so slowly he’d felt like he wasn’t moving at all; and then all at once, like an avalanche, he’d had his lips so softly on Aziraphale’s, and time had had the same quality to it as it does when he dozes: honey-like. 

He’d found an answer, there, between Aziraphale’s lips. If he could’ve slipped his tongue in, perhaps he would have discovered what it was. Alas. He’d hardly found what he’d been looking for before Aziraphale had pulled so harshly away. 

There’d been tears on his cheeks. He wouldn’t look at him. For the briefest of moments, a half second, Crowley had felt an inexplicable rage. Why wouldn’t he look at him? Then it had faded, leaving him feeling exhausted. The only thing he’d wanted to do was go to sleep, or at least go far away so he wouldn’t have to look at the angel who would not kiss him back. 

But he’d still have to face his memories, no matter where he was. Not even the comforts of his bed with its fine silk sheets and expensive down duvet could save him from seeing the picture of Aziraphale’s face, turned as though in pain, in his head. 

For a while, when he’d gotten to his flat, he’d shouted at his plants. It was a very effective way to destress, and if it happened that the plants also grew a little more verdant and stood a little taller, then that was just a very welcome perk. But eventually not even criticising browning patches on leaves or wilting flowers could stop the tears that he’d been fighting to keep at bay; the plants had been watered with a unique mixture of tap water and demon tears. 

How stupid he’d been. He should have kept his curiosity to himself, kept it deep within his heart and refrained from thinking about it as much as possible. He could have avoided _all_ of this if he’d just had a little more self-control. He could be making plans to have dinner at the Savoy this evening with Aziraphale if he hadn’t had to go and ruin everything between them. 

He’d never be able to see Aziraphale again.

That was a very decided thing to think, and he was already mourning him. How long, he wondered, would he be able to hold off from going to the bookshop? 

He’d once ignored Aziraphale for a whole century. It had been as easy as getting into bed, closing his eyes, and switching off for a hundred years. 

Why couldn’t he do that now? 

Probably because this situation couldn’t be more different from the one in 1862. Now, with the word _love_ having been thrown around, they could no longer hide behind pretences and disguise their true feelings. Once _love_ had been declared, things got a whole lot stickier. 

Or, at least, that’s what Crowley was trying to tell himself. He knew deep down that it was just a matter of cowardice, on his part: fear of having his own heart broken into a million pieces (which is exactly what he had spent six-thousand years trying to avoid, and which was what sleeping for a century was a defence mechanism against) that he had given no thought to Aziraphale’s own heart. He was so used to tending to just the one that now he’d been handed another and told to keep it safe, he’d quite forgotten. 

Crowley couldn’t just fall asleep because he couldn’t just get the image of Aziraphale crying, looking in pain, out of his head. Because he felt _guilty_. He should’ve asked. He’d thought his slow approach forward had made his intentions clear, but clearly not. Who goes around just kissing people without permission?

He’d have to apologise. He just needed to find the courage (and the energy) to get himself up and over to Aziraphale’s shop, and to not chicken out half way there. 

Deep breaths. He could do this. It was just an apology for running out like that, wasn’t it? It wasn’t like he hadn’t done _that _before. He was only nervous because he wasn’t sure whether Aziraphale wanted to ever see him again. 

Easy peasy. Might as well get on with it, then.

-

Crowley parked in his space next to the bookshop an hour later. He looked at its facade; it looked the same as always. Two centuries old, its peeling paint still charming, gilt lettering announcing to all that _Mr Fell_ had been selling books since 1800. 

It was locked. Crowley hadn’t expected any different, but he worried. Had Aziraphale not opened the shop in three days? He wished he could tell if the dust everywhere was new or just the normal culmination of two centuries worth of dirt, uncleaned strategically to keep people away. 

After knocking on the door and establishing, with a tense five minute wait, that no one was going to come, he took his key out and unlocked it himself. It felt small in his hand, far smaller than normal; it felt like he could lose it in the keyhole. This must have been the _just in case_ Aziraphale had warned about. 

There was no Aziraphale to greet him when he swung the door open. There was nothing to greet him at all, apart from the normal piles and piles of books that Aziraphale continuously refused to sell. There was no noise; it was silent in the way abandoned spaces are silent, which is to say, eerily. It was a silence that echoes, if only in the chamber of one’s own head. 

He stepped slowly to the backroom, and then was held lingering at the threshold. There was Aziraphale, at the table, sitting in exactly the same position as Crowley had left him in, down to the outstretched hand and turned head. Had he not moved in _three days?_

‘Aziraphale?’ Crowley whisped, but it was a whisper so quiet even he could barely hear it, more just the suggestion of a breath. He moved forward, haltingly, settling himself near the prone figure of his dearest friend and the one he loved.

‘Aziraphale?’ He tried again, and this time Aziraphale blinked. His head turned towards the direction Crowley was in, though not focusing on him directly. Slowly, with all the speed that Crowley had inched their lips together three days ago, Aziraphale also retracted his outstretched hand; he twitched the fingers, the movement awkward, the digits stiff with disuse. 

‘Please…’ Aziraphale muttered; Crowley lent closer to hear him better. 

‘Sorry?’

‘Please, don’t leave me, please, don’t leave me, please…’

Was it possible for a heart to truly break? Crowley had feared for millennia that it was; he’d seen what love could do to humans and he had desperately tried everything to make sure it wouldn’t happen to him. He’d finally trusted, opened the thorny gates around his heart, let Aziraphale cradle it, and he’d finally understood why humans expose themselves to the risk of heartbreak: if he’d known he could feel such happiness earlier, he would’ve said something then. But this, this was worse than any heartbreak he could have ever feared for before, this was worse than the risk of baring his heart and having it stepped upon. _He _did this. How could he do anything but cry?

‘Angel? Angel, angel, I’m sorry, Aziraphale, please look at me, I’m sorry, angel?’ A continuous stream of sounds left his mouth, the words random and subconscious while he gently placed a hand on Aziraphale’s still-shaking shoulder and tried to turn him around a little. He didn’t move but he did finally make eye contact. Crowley cried a bit harder in relief. 

‘Crowley,’ Aziraphale said, and it sounded as wretched as he looked. It was a voice that very much matched the dusty, unkempt appearance of the bookshop - but not a voice that matched the normally very well kept appearance of Mr Fell. People with manicures did not have voices like footsteps on gravel. 

There was a silence in which Crowley wondered whether it was too late to run away and try to fall asleep a little bit harder. He’d head humans had created all sorts of medication to help one get their forty winks. Maybe he’d take a whole packet of sleeping pills and wake up next century, and face this then. 

He looked back at the miserable face of his best friend. Aziraphale wasn’t looking at him anymore, face downturned and eyes almost closed; if Crowley left to sleep the century away, he’d wake up to find Aziraphale in the exact same position a century later. He couldn’t keep ignoring this. 

‘Angel, I’m sorry,’ he said, soft as he could. ‘I should’ve asked you, first.’ His hand rubbed soothing patterns where it was on Aziraphale’s shoulder; he felt the shaking subside. ‘I should’ve asked you, I’m sorry, angel,’

He’d repeat it for the next six millennia if he had to. Would Aziraphale ever forgive this? He was in such a state, and Crowley had just left him like that, after kissing him without permission. Didn’t this prove that he wasn’t worthy of the redemption Aziraphale had so freely given him? 

‘I wish you’d stayed, Crowley, it’s been so cold,’ Aziraphale said, and Crowley’s heart threatened to break even further, which he found astonishing since it was already in splinters. _He’d_ done this. 

‘I know, I’m sorry, angel,’

‘I didn’t hate it, I didn’t hate it, Crowley,’

There was a silence. It seemed as though silence characterised their relationship recently. 

‘But… you pulled away… I thought -‘

‘I didn’t hate it,’ 

‘Okay,’

They looked at each other. Crowley leant in slightly, slowly. 

‘Can I try again, then?’ He asked in a whisper. 

He could not hide his disappointment when Aziraphale pulled away slightly and shook his head. His hand unconsciously gripped tighter on Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

‘Just… not my lips,’ Aziraphale said after another silence. He had whispered but it sounded so loud between them, close as they were to each other. Crowley’s eyes tracked over Aziraphale’s face, halting on his lips, before he nodded. Alright. That was fine. 

He leant forward again, just as slowly, the hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder migrating to the back of his head and tipping it downwards. He barely had time to see Aziraphale’s eyes slipping shut before his lips met his forehead with the softness of water, a barely-there butterfly touch. It was just a lingering brush, fingers in white-blond hair twitching at the little contented sigh he head Aziraphale exhale, before he was drawing back and Aziraphale was raising his head. 

His eyes were still closed, but there was a smile on his lips. The tear tracks looked very out of place on such a pleased face; Crowley absently rubbed at them to erase their evidence. Aziraphale’s smiled widened under his ministrations. He brought a hand up to rest on Crowley’s wrist. 

‘I love you,’ He said, and Crowley felt his heart start to stitch itself together again. So Aziraphale just preferred forehead kisses; that was fine. He let a smile wrestle itself onto his lips before he drew Aziraphale in again, pressing kiss after kiss on his crown. There was an answer here, too: it was that kissing Aziraphale felt as pure and as perfect as he had imagined it to be. 

He leant back again and gripped Aziraphale’s hand, a smile of heart-wrenching joy on his face and inexplicable tears welling in his eyes. Stupid eyes, always watering at the slightest emotion. Good thing he wore sunglasses. 

Aziraphale rose their joined hands to his own lips and kissed Crowley’s knuckles, and Crowley smiled wider. The angel who would not kiss back would, actually, just in his own way. 

-

Evening fell like a veil upon London, its stars like specks of glitter and the peaches of April sunsets a stain upon the now cloudless sky. It tripped into the bookshop like molten gold, illuminating the figures sat at the table with a soft halo. Their hands were joined, as they so often were these days. Crowley’s thumb ran circles on the back of Aziraphale’s hand; Aziraphale clasped Crowley’s hand in both of his. 

They were so close and the cold was a stranger. Crowley had to hardly move to reach Aziraphale’s cheek, chin, nose, forehead, crown; he kissed each in turn, and then kissed each again. It was sweeter than any wine Aziraphale could have served.

This time, the silence permeating the backroom was a blanket, a comfort - no longer the icy river it had once been. There was nothing Aziraphale wanted to say, nothing he could bring himself to disturb the peace for; there was a calm he had never known before settling in every crevice of himself and it originated with the touch of Crowley’s lips against his skin. What _was _there to say, when that said it all?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to know what you think if you've got a moment, since I'm not quite happy with how this turned out. I feel I lost my way with the characterisation. Oh well. 
> 
> I do have plans for a third part to this series (in which we may finally see Crowley say I love you back) but I'm not sure how quick I'll have that up. I haven't started writing it yet and I'm preparing to go to university, but we'll see. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
